


Seafoam Royalty

by icannotevenhhh



Category: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - Ransom Riggs
Genre: Beaches, LITERALLY, M/M, Millard twists his ankle bc he fell for Victor, Minor Injuries, POV Third Person, Sunsets, Swimming, Teenagers doing mildly dangerous things because they're bored, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icannotevenhhh/pseuds/icannotevenhhh
Summary: Victor Bruntley was king of the hill. Er—rock.As if to prove his point, he threw Fiona down into the ocean with asplash. Abe and Hugh followed soon after.Bronwyn chuckled, adjusting the strap of her bathing suit. “Yes and no.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, framed by beauty marks deepened with sun. The Bruntleys were blessed with the ability to tan instead of burn—a feature Millard would envy if he wasn’t invisible."How do you feel about treason via assassination?”
Relationships: Victor Bruntley/Millard Nullings
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46





	Seafoam Royalty

Millard was very, very glad he couldn’t sunburn.

The sun beamed down upon the swathe of pebbly sand around him, a great disk of orange in a sky twinging pink with oncoming evening. It was a lesser-known cranny of the island, in that none of the village bothered making the trip through murk and muck to reach it. Not that Millard blamed them. It was less trouble to go anywhere else, especially when the coast was so near and beach encircled half the island. This spot was theirs, though.

They called it the Skipping Stones.

Great spires of rock rose from the aquamarine ocean, gargantuan compared to the boulders flanking them on every side. Millard perched on one such boulder. It was buried deep in the sand like an iceberg, the rolling tide just barely kissing its age-smoothed surface. At Millard’s back was a cliff, short by Cairnholm standards, boxing in the miniature paradise into a little cove. Trees reached desperately to the horizon from the woods a storey above his head, their leaves creating a fleeting, speckled shade that shuddered in the breeze.

About twenty feet away, Enoch shrieked in a mix of terror and glee as Victor picked him up and slammed him into the water.

Millard watched them for a beat, the book in his lap ignored in favor of dark hair and a crooked nose and a whooping laugh.

Victor Bruntley was king of the hill. Er—rock.

Millard was the only one left on the beach who hadn’t yet tried to usurp Victor’s throne. Even Horace, suit and tie folded neatly away and trousers rolled up past his knees, had made an attempt. Victor, for his part, was gentle in tossing him into the water’s waiting embrace. That was twenty minutes ago. Horace was still curled up against the cliff, frantically trying to brush clumps of sand out of his previously flawless hair.

Speaking of sand.

Bronwyn hauled herself onto Millard’s perch with a grunt, teeny granules stuck to her damp arms and legs. She shook out her hair like a dog, and Millard snapped his book shut—page 167—to keep it from getting wet.

“What’re you reading, Mill?”

“Oh, nothing important.” Bronwyn didn’t have to know it was Gone With the Wind. “What brings you to the shore? Figure stealing the crown isn’t worth having your arm torn clean off?”

As if to prove his point, Victor threw Fiona down with a _splash_. Abe and Hugh followed soon after. 

Bronwyn chuckled, adjusting the strap of her improvised bathing suit. (She had refused to wear anything other than a sleeveless top and men’s trunks.)

“Yes and no.” Bronwyn’s eyes sparkled with mischief, framed by beauty marks deepened with sun. The Bruntleys were blessed with the ability to tan instead of burn—a feature Millard would envy if he wasn’t invisible. “I’ve tried just about everything I could. Nearly knocked him off a coupl’a times, but he’s just...ugh.”

Millard nodded though he knew Bronwyn couldn’t see. He knew the feeling.

“So,” Bronwyn continued, “I’m using alternative methods. How do you feel about treason via assassination?”

“...I’m listening.”

Bronwyn pointed up at Victor, who shook Emma off his ankle and dumped her into the water, hissing steam rising from where she hit the surface. “See how he focuses on one person at a time?”

Millard hummed, already seeing where this was going. “You want me to strip so he can’t see me and then shove him into the water.”

“While he’s distracted.” Bronwyn took a beat, unsatisfied with her reply. “B-By me, of course. I’ll try an’ get a hold on him, or something.”

Millard glanced down to his book, then over to the basket of snacks he was supposedly guarding. He’d already begun unbuttoning his shirt by the time he gave his answer. “Alright, I’ll do it. Which side do you want me to climb up?”

* * *

Millard was almost at the top of the rock, clothes abandoned in a heap by the book he half-wished he was still reading.

Bronwyn crept along opposite him, mirroring his ascent. To his left and unaware of his presence was a determined Enoch, an angry red sunburn blossoming over his nose and arms that dyed his freckles dark maroon. With a labored grunt, Enoch tugged himself up onto level footing with Victor, his oversized crew neck unsticking from his torso and fluttering gently in the wind.  
“I’d rather you didn’t break my bloody arm in half this time, yeah?” He panted, grinning despite himself.

“No promises. How far do you want me to throw?”

“You say that like you’re going to win.”

Victor cocked a brow. Enoch fell silent, dripping seawater into a puddle at his feet.

“...Yeah, okay, fair. Far as you can.”

Victor shrugged, widening his stance in anticipation. “If you’re going to lose, might as well make a splash.”

Millard’s heart squeezed seeing Victor up close. His dark hair had mostly dried from time out of the water, tousled by the wind and thick with salt and sand. His forehead glinted with sweat and an easy, carefree grin played across his face.

Enoch didn’t stand a chance, and they all knew it.

Enoch surged forward in a crude grapple. Victor sidestepped, using his momentum to grab Enoch’s arm and spin him off the ground.

“WAIT-“

Victor reached for Enoch’s ankle, and then it was over. He wound up in a graceful twirl, flinging the flailing boy off the rock. Enoch flew for a good twenty seconds before hitting the water with an undignified scream.

Victor peered over the edge, hands on his knees as he laughed. “YOU ALRIGHT, MATE?”

His only reply was Enoch’s hand, rising from the water to flick him a V.

Then Bronwyn’s fingers hooked over the rock’s edge. It was go time.

Millard clambered up onto the rock as Bronwyn effortlessly tugged herself onto her feet. The surface was less even than Millard previously estimated—it was a miracle Victor had kept his ground for so long without tripping.

Victor faced her, turning his back to Millard. Which was just as well; he didn’t have to see Victor’s face to know he was smiling. “Hey, Wynnie!”

Bronwyn beamed. That was one thing the Bruntleys had in common—they loved the exhilaration of a challenge.

“Ready to eat sand?” Bronwyn replied, cracking her knuckles. If he didn’t know better, he’d put all his money on Bronwyn. The siblings may have been the same height, but that was where the similarities ended. Bronwyn was built like a brick house, where Victor was a straw shack. She looked as though she could snap him like a twig.

Victor popped his neck, rolling back his shoulders and squaring up for impact.

They were very much evenly matched.

Bronwyn lunged. Victor stood his ground, clearly anticipating the full force of her weight. Bronwyn faked out at the last second, ducking to the side. Victor relaxed, head turned and watching her in confusion. Millard took his chance, stepping forward—

His hands just barely brushed Victor’s shoulders before he lost his balance, a puddle of water below his feet leaving him scrabbling for stability. He stepped on a stretch uneven of rock. Pain shot up his leg as his ankle twisted and he stumbled backwards. With a shout of surprise, all he could see was Bronwyn’s face stricken with fear as he fell, plunging into the water below.

* * *

“Millard!” Victor shouted, falling to his knees and frantically scanning the waves for any sign of him breaking the surface.

He counted.

One. Two. Three.

A seagull cried overhead.

Four. Five. Six.

Bronwyn held her breath.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

By ten, Victor was already diving into the water.

His vision blurred as the salt stung his eyes, bubbles of air escaping his nose as he looked around.

There. A few feet away floated an absence of water, a gently thrashing space in the shape of a boy.

Victor kicked with all his might, hooking his arms under Millard’s. He hauled him up to the surface, gasping and shaking the water from his hair. Millard spluttered, his chest heaving against Victor’s as he struggled to breathe.

“Birds above, Millard! Are you alright?”

Millard coughed. Victor could vaguely see his outline where droplets rolled down his skin and hair. “M-My ankle. I think I might have sprained it.”

“...Hold on tight.” Without another word, Victor began to swim. Millard threw his arms around his neck, hanging on to Victor like a lifeline as he was towed to shore.

Once they reached water below waist level, Victor stopped, rising to his feet. Millard followed—judging by where the water parted around him, he was favoring his left foot.

“Oi, Wynnie!”

“What is it? Is he okay?”

By now, the others had waded out to meet them, forming a cluster around the pair. Bronwyn and Horace were the only ones left on the beach.

“Hell’s bells, Nullings! What did you even do?” Enoch asked.

Before either Victor or Millard could answer, Hugh interjected. “Did you hurt yourself? I saw you slip on that puddle up there!”

From there, everyone exploded into concerned questions. Victor ignored them, continuing to shout to Bronwyn. “Towel, please?”

Bronwyn nodded, rolling up a towel and sending it sailing over everyone’s heads into Victor’s arms. Victor wrapped it tight around Millard’s shoulders.

“What are you doiNG-“

Millard’s question turned into an undignified squeak of embarrassment as Victor scooped him into his arms like a newlywed. Victor smiled.

“Well, you gotta keep weight off that bad foot, right?”

Millard fell silent, leaning his head against Victor’s chest as he was carried out of the water. The others flocked around them like seagulls begging for scraps, shouting their questions into empty air. On the shore, Horace was perched atop Millard’s rock, a roll of bandages and a checkered ice bag in hand.

Victor set Millard down beside Horace, the stone dampening and turning dark grey under the press of his skin, outlining his legs and heels.

“Sorry the bag’s a little melted, I couldn’t do much about that. But it still should be plenty cool, perfect for that sprain.” Horace’s eyes shone with knowing as he spoke, and Victor thought it best not to question it.

“You knew this would happen?” Emma asked, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“And where’d you hide that stuff?” Hugh tacked on. Horace rolled his eyes.

“It was in with the food.”

“But why not tell the injury? Bad, yes?” Abe asked.

“I was getting to that, thank you. I-“

“The fall was actually rather funny,” Enoch snickered. “He-“

“AS I was saying,” Horace began, pointedly glaring at Enoch. “I didn’t mention the sprain to keep Millard from breaking his arm. If he knew, he would have taken a different approach to pushing Victor, and would have instead fallen on his elbow. I thought this the better alternative.”

Hums of agreement passed among the group, and finally Bronwyn spoke up. Victor didn’t miss the coy look she shot him, and was blushing before she even began.

“Let’s give them some space, everyone. Victor’s got everything under control, and I’m sure Mill needs some room to breathe after that fiasco.”

“Yes please,” Millard affirmed weakly, punctuated by a cough. Hugh plucked the basket from the rock, holding it up as an offering to the group.

“How’s a snack break sound?”

More humming and positive chatter. The cluster began to disperse, the odd hand shooting out to pat Millard’s back or ruffle his hair. Victor managed to snag a carton of blackberries from the basket as Hugh passed, and then he and Millard were (relatively) alone. 

Victor set down the blackberries, clearing his throat.

“So…”

“So indeed.” 

“Do you need help with your, ah…”

“If you don’t mind?”

Awkwardness hung thick between them as Victor took Millard’s calf and tugged his foot into his lap, earning a hiss of pain. “Sorry.”

“You’re all good. Just be careful.”

“Right.” Victor swallowed, looking down at the empty weight on his thigh, gently but steadily beginning to wrap the bandages around Millard’s foot and ankle. “...How’s that, Your Majesty? Tight enough?”

Millard breathed a slight chuckle. “Pardon?”

“Is the compression tight enough?”

“No, the bit before that. You called me Your Majesty.”

Victor shrugged, ignoring the feeling of Millard’s gaze on his face. “You got me into the water,” he explains, pressing the ice bag against Millard’s ankle. “Which, according to the rules, means you’re King of the Rock.”

Millard laughed. “That’s most certainly _not_ how the game works.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“See, now we’ve got a problem on our hands. Because if you’re King, I have to do as you say. But if I agree, then you wouldn’t be King in the first place, which renders your ruling null and means I have every right to say you’re King.”

“Quite the paradox we find ourselves in.”

Victor flushed. Millard was too smart for him—he didn’t know what that word meant. “...Quite the what?”

Millard sighed, and Victor was relieved to hear contentment in his voice instead of annoyance. “Nothing, Victor. Don’t worry yourself with it.” The carton of blackberries floated off the rock and onto Millard’s toweled lap. A single berry rose into the air. “Open your mouth, would you?”

Victor grinned, doing as told. The blackberry sailed towards him in a high arc, and he leaned back to catch it between his teeth. “You need to practice your aim.”

“Mleh.” That was the sound of Millard sticking his tongue out. Victor laughed, but the sound soon died in his throat. He had made the mistake of looking up at where he estimated Millard’s head to be.

Droplets of water hovered in midair like a snapshot of rain, the occasional granule of sand punctuating a curve or curl or arch, suggesting the shape of Millard’s hair and face. The setting sun dyed the sky deep pink-orange and glinted off their surfaces, turning Millard into a being of glimmering Christmas lights. Victor was breathless.

“...Is there something on my face?” Millard asked, the jewels on his skin shifting as he reached up to touch his cheek.

“N-No!” Victor’s arm shot out to take Millard’s hand, bringing it down and lacing their fingers together. “No, it’s just...you’re real pretty.”

Millard snorted. “Yeah, okay. Hilarious.”

“Millard, I’m serious.”

Silence fell between them. Enoch griped about something in the distance, and Bronwyn shushed him. Millard squeezed Victor’s palm.

“...You can’t even see me.”

“Yeah, I _can_. Birds above, Mill, you look like…” Victor smiled, unable to find the right words. “...you look like _stars_.”

Millard shifted, cautiously lowering his leg and tugging the towel further around himself. His stars only shone brighter as he moved closer, and then Victor felt the warm press of lips against his cheek. The others’ quiet chatter faded away into nothing as Millard leaned his head on Victor’s shoulder, damp curls tickling his neck as he gripped his hand tighter. Their knees knocked together as Millard offered Victor a blackberry.

“Thanks.”

“For the berry or the kiss?”

Victor pressed his cheek into the top of Millard’s head. The sunset may have been beautiful, but it was nothing in comparison to the boy at his side. 

“I’ll let you decide the answer to that, Your Majesty.”

* * *

Bronwyn tore her eyes away from the rock to focus on the issue at hand.

“Shouldn’t we be going by now?” Enoch hissed. “The Bird’ll be right cross with us if we come home after dark the second night in a row!”

“Ooh, do I hear Enoch O’Connor caring about curfew?” Hugh cooed, giving Enoch a playful nudge and earning a shove in return.

“Bugger off, yeah? I just don’t want to have to scrub the toilet bowls with our toothbrushes!”

Abe frowned. “Bird would not make us do that...would she?”

Emma huffed, folding her arms. “Of course not! Enoch’s just being a little prat.”

“He’s got a point, though,” Horace said, slipping on his suit jacket. “As much as I’m loath to admit it, it may not be the best idea on our part to stay out past sunset.”

Bronwyn glanced back over her shoulder. Victor looked moonstruck, and Millard was leaning into his side. She smiled. “Just a little while longer, alright?”

“Why?” Hugh cocked his head, a handful of bees forming a buzzing aerial question mark beside him. “Are we forgetting something?” 

Fiona tapped his shoulder to gain his attention, then nodded over to the rock. Hugh blinked, puzzled by what he was seeing, before realisation finally dawned. “Ooooooh. Okay. Yeah, a few more minutes seems alright.”

“What?” Enoch snapped, indignant. “Why?”

“Quiet, Enoch,” Emma replied, looping her arm through Abe’s. “Let them have their moment.”

Enoch looked around to each one of the group, scowling. Bronwyn gave him her best puppy dog eyes (which weren’t very good, but that didn’t matter), and Enoch sighed in defeat.

“I’m loopmates with a bunch of saps.”

“Shut up, Enoch!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jenna for suggesting the prompt for this and James for proofing it! <3


End file.
